The Art of Ballet
by HonourTOne
Summary: A look into the world of ballet where anything is likely and dancers know it.
1. Class

Disclaimer: I own nothing that belongs to Center Stage.  
  
Author's note: The first time I saw Center Stage I was captivated. It is a wonderful movie that portrays a dancer's life well. Many other movies (e.g. Save the Last Dance) failed to do this. After all, when thousands of dancers strive for years to be the best, only one will be chosen to be Gissell (Gissell is the lead part in a major ballet. What I mean is that, only one person out of thousands will have the best part, unlike other sports where you have many stars.)  
  
"Ballerinas dance for their whole lives seeking only one thing: Perfection. But in all these long years, they know that they will never have it." My teacher once told me. I was 13 years old and was in my 7th year of dance, and third year of pointe. 'Naturally, those words have stuck with me to this day' I thought as I slowly walked in the dance room. It was 6 o'clock, and it was still dark out. Other weary dancers came in behind me, yawning excessively. Choosing my usual spot at the middle barre, I dropped by bags and sat down, groaning from my aching leg muscles. The Grande battemet the day before had done horrors to my muscles, but I liked the feel of it. I loved going to bed at night feeling like I had danced. Danced something that left its mark.  
  
Taking out my hair box, where I kept bobby pins, scrunchies, etc., I yawned once more. After finding a brush and a hair elastic I put my hair up in a neat bun, then looked at myself in the mirror. It would not do for a ballerina to have loose hair strands. After putting away my hair box, I kicked off my flip flops and stood up. I began to warm up a little, still in my warm up clothes: black shorts, leg warmers, and a tight black sweater over my black leotard and pink convertible tights. My bare feet were covered in tape and band aids. Small cuts and blisters seemed to appear everywhere. After stretching my legs and arms I sat back down, and rummaged through my Blocke bag for my pointe shoes. Upon pulling them out, I realized that the ribbon attached to them was unraveling. 'Not good' I though, biting my lip.  
  
"Hey, Chris, do you have your lighter?!" I shouted across the room at Chris, a male dancer who had been with the company for 2 years. Yawning slightly, he nodded yes and threw me a lighter out of his pocket. I usually discouraged his smoking, since it hardly helped you dance better, but I was glad that he had his lighter today. Flicking the flame on, I brought it close to my ribbon and started to burn away the fibers that made it unravel. When I was done, I threw it back at Chris, who was hit in the head with it. Chris rubbed his head and muttered how I never did have good aim as he put away his lighter, but was smiling none the less.  
  
After padding my feet and putting on my shoes, I stood up and began to work my feet in them. They were old and beginning to lose their original pink color. They were Chacotte Coppelia's, the only kind I ever got, and were very comfortable due to their age. Most dancers favor their old pointe shoes more highly than new ones. 'It's a pain in my ass to have to break in new ones.' I thought and smiled slightly.  
  
As I looked around the room, I noticed the sun had begun to come out, and all the tired, yawning people had disappeared. They were replaced by people who had a flame of passion in their eyes. You could see it flicker and grow brighter as the touched the barre and ran their fingers over it. Every dancer first began dancing on the barre. Its is our native land, and mother. When your pirrorettes just couldn't make a triple, or your glissades stopped gliding, you could always come to the barre. It was always there. I smiled then, for the pure pleasure of it. No one but a dancer knew that pleasure, that thrill you get as you flow through the music and let yourself drown in it.  
  
"Hey NYCB." Serge said as he drew nearer. He was smiling, despite the black circles under his eyes and bruises all over him from dance. I smiled, then, at the mention of my nickname. I studied at the New York City Ballet originally, but came here as a guest dancer to study for a couple months.  
  
"Stupid, friggin' shoes!" I heard Eva yell from behind me. She dropped her bags and began to fiddle with her pointe shoes, which seem to have been falling apart.  
  
"Eva, we all love our oldest pointe shoes, but once they begin to fall apart, you'll come to find that it's easier to break in new ones than it is to break in Jonathon." I laughed slightly, and the others nearby joined in. Everyone knew that Jonathon got upset if our dance attire wasn't in fairly good shape.  
  
"Eva, you're wearing a Navy Blue leotard. Jonathon's going to be pissed." Jodie said as she walked up, yawning a little. Until Cooper got his studio completed, Jodie decided to take classes here to stay in shape.  
  
"Yeah, I know, but come on, it's dark enough." She reasoned as she continued to fix her shoes with a needle and thread.  
  
"Black leotard, pink tights." Ana said a little arrogantly as she joined in. Ever since she got a solo in Jonathon's ballet last year, she acted like she was the queen of dance. 'Snotty little bitch.' I thought to myself than began to smile. Eric noticed my smile and raised an eyebrow at me. I pretended to have a fit of coughing. As Ana sat down to put on her shoes, Eva gave her the finger, which immediately cracked us all up. Apparently getting the same idea as Ana looked at us, we all started have 'coughing fits.'  
  
Standing up, Ana brushed some dust off of her dance skirt, and said, "Have you seen the new dancer from San Francisco. Who the hell taught her? Her turn out is horrible, especially in her foites." Ana continued to speak for several more minutes, regardless of our excessive yawns and eye rolling.  
  
Thinking back to my thoughts of ballet perfection, I thought of a quote I once read: "Ballet's image of perfection is fashioned among a milieu of wracked bodies, Balkan Intrigue, and sulfurous hatreds where anything is likely and dancers know it."  
  
'Too true' I thought and began to chuckle. Post Script: Having been dancing for 9 years, I've come to learn something about ballet that can't be learned anywhere else. I can not describe it. Rather, I shall write about it. 


	2. Ballet dancers are suppose to be classy,...

Disclaimer: see previous one. Sorry for spelling mistakes. The french part of my ballet exams were never my favorite. :P  
  
"Again!" shouted my instructor. Tired, and ready to collapse, I slowly walked to the center of the room, breathing heavily. My feet ached and I knew that I couldn't do it again. Not that dreaded combination. The oxygen was gone from my muscles and all that was left was useless flesh and bone.  
  
Sighing, I placed my feet in fifth position, my arms in high fifth and waited for the music to begin. It didn't take long. Within 5 seconds, the piano started and so did my Hell that I also liked to refer to as my Heaven. Develop, leap, triple piroette, and on and on it went. The thrill, the ecstasy, the-  
  
Floor? Apparently, my muscles decided to take a break of their own, and my ankle could no longer support itself. So, here I am, having fallen to the floor, my ankle hurting like hell, me ass hurting like hell, and one teacher who was just dying to say 'again!'  
  
Bringing my right hand up to my forehead, I rubbed away sweat and tangled hair from my face. I sighed, then, and began to stand up.  
  
"Are you alright, Veronica?" My teacher asked quietly.  
  
"yes, I'm-" I paused. Fine? No, I wasn't fine, and Lord knows that wouldn't get me out of this private dance session. "I'm tired, Madam, and my ankle is swelling. May I be dismissed?"  
  
With a slight nod, my teacher dismissed me. I picked up my bags, the clothes spread about the room that I had discarded with frustration and heat while I was dancing, and left.  
  
As I slowly walked up to my dorm, I thought about ballet. Not dance. Ballet. Ballet had a skill, a technique, nay a passion in it that belonged to no other type of dance. I embraced that passion like a lover, and yet I found its Siren call that of a true siren. Sirens, the beautiful women who drew men to their deaths. Was ballet just a beautiful art meant to draw us to death with the pleasure it gives us? If so, what a wonderful way to die. Smiling, I reached my dorm and went inside to find no one there.  
  
Setting down my bags and clothes, I went into my bathroom and pulled off my tights and leotard. I took a quick, warm shower to remove myself of that awful sweat. Upon getting out, I dressed in a NYCB sweater and baggy jeans.  
  
After digging around under my bed for my History textbook, I brought it over to my desk. Just as I was ready to sit down, however, a knock upon the door interrupted my actions. Curious, I walked over to the door, and opened it to find four smiling faces. Charlie, leaning against the doorway, crossing his arms slightly; Jodie, with her hands slightly clasped in front of her; Eva, with one hand on her hip and an unlit cigarette in the other; and Serge, with both arms crossed.  
  
Smiling, I crossed my arms and mockingly asked, "yes, Satan?"  
  
Lighting her cigarette, Eva said offhandedly, "No, Anna's downstairs." The rest of us laughed, all having experienced Anna's bitchiness.  
  
Waving smoke from my face and coughing slightly, I managed to say, "Dear God, Eva, those are so bad for you. Dancers need to be healthy."  
  
Smiling, Jodie added, "Get a new hobby."  
  
"Yeah, like stamp collecting. It'll calm you right down!" said Serge laughing.  
  
Smiling, and take in a puff of smoke, Eva said sarcastically, "I hate you guys."  
  
"Love you too, babe." Charlie added in.  
  
"Excuse me?" said Jodie. Faking a tantrum, she trotted off.  
  
Laughing, Charlie followed her begging her to forgive him.  
  
Me, Serge, and Eva all said, "Aww," At the same time.  
  
Holding Charlie's hand, Jodie walked back up to us. "True love is so wonderful.."  
  
Serge leaned against the wall and added, "It's but a 8 letter word."  
  
Taking another puff of smoke and chuckling, Eva added, "Yeah, well so is bullshit."  
  
Eva, Charlie, Serge, and me all chuckled slightly, almost ready to burst out laughing.  
  
Shaking her head and trying hard not to laugh Jodie said, "Now I hate you guys."  
  
That was it! We tried and failed miserably. We burst out laughing. Was it really that funny? Perhaps not, but Jodie's face was enough to keep me laughing for days.  
  
Walking into my room and throwing her cigarette out the window, Eva asked, "So where are we going tonight?"  
  
"We?" I asked, raising my left eyebrow in amusement.  
  
Grabbing my arm Serge said, "Yes, we." Jodie grabbed my other arm and added, "Including you."  
  
Silently groaning, I gave in.  
  
"You guys do remember what happened last time we went out right?" I asked, laughing slightly and turning red in embarrassment.  
  
"Yeah, it was masterful." Said Serge laughing.  
  
"Yeah, I still have the tape. We made the morning news." Eva said.  
  
"And Johnathon's Shit List." I added.  
  
"So, Johnathon got a.bit.mad," said Charlie while he was hugging Jodie, "At least our company got more publicity, right?"  
  
Knowing that both the battle and the war were over, I grumbled my way to my dresser, pulling out some clothes while throwing the Eva, Serge, Jodie, and Charlie dirty looks. Then I went into the bathroom, hoping that if it happened again, I had better make more than the morning news. 


	3. Bad News

Disclaimer: It never changes.  
  
And now, a few words from the author: I would first like to thank everyone for reading, no matter what you may have thought of it. Second, forgive me, but I never much enjoyed the spelling parts of ballet. I always cared more for how dancing made me feel rather than how it was actually spelled. Third, I'm sorry if you don't like my writing style. I was always a details type person, and as is such, I am a romanticist writer. Meaning, I focus more on how something is written rather than what is means. If you think this fanfic is bad, I urge you not to read my other one, which is full of psychological details.  
  
I am sorry I have been slacking off in writing. I am hardly one to be halted with bad reviews; rather I was just too busy these past few months.  
  
Now, on to the fanfic, which I am going to have to make up as I go:  
  
Ever realize how your alarm clock sounds like the screams of the damned? Like a mortal may sound as the fall into the jagged flames of roaring hell fire? Like an angel ripped apart by a million demons, all with scorching hands and dagger nails?  
  
Or perhaps you realize that getting up at bloody 5 o'clock in the morning makes me feel all poetic and shit.  
  
Turning off my alarm, I laid in bed for a few moments, sighing. I was so tired from the class the night before, that I had to slap myself to wake up. Slowly, I managed to sit up, yawning heavily. Hearing slightly muted rock music from the bar across the street, still active from the party that was suppose to end last night, I stood up and stretched.  
  
As I began to wash my hair in the shower, I began to question why in the name of hell I decided to sign up for that extra history class on Saturdays. I should use this day to sleep in and get over hangovers that may or may not occur on the Friday before. True, it sounded like a good idea at the time. Renaissance history always fascinated me; I even considered studying it over dance. But at five in the morning, almost everything good sounds evil.  
  
20 minutes later, both me and my dark-circles-under-the-good-ole-eyes were dressed and ready to leave. Exiting the building, I grabbed a cab, and headed to my class.  
  
3 hours later...  
  
...I had finally grabbed breakfast, finished the class and was on my way up to my room when someone called my name.  
  
"Veronica!"  
  
Turning around, and almost losing my balance from having failed to notice the: Caution, wet floor sign, I spotted Eva running towards me, her dark hair loose about her shoulders.  
  
"Hey Eva," I said as she came closer. Droping my heavy bag, full of books, I studied her. She looked upset, but wasn't crying. A packet of cigarettes was in one hand, one that was trembling, and a paper was in the other.  
  
"Read this!" She shoved the paper under my nose. As I began to read it, I slowly grabbed the paper myself. It read:  
  
Notice-  
  
The "Scenes from Swan Lake" showcase has been postponed for the time being. All dancers that have a part in this piece are to meet Mr. Reeve's in studio #3 at 5:30 tonight. Due to certain funding errors, the piece may be subject to cancellation.  
  
Sincerely, Management.  
  
Looking up at Eva, I knew that I must have looked just as upset.  
  
"This is bullshit. We worked on that piece for over 2 months now; the board approved its funding-" Not sure of what thought to shout out, I picked a random one in my head. One that summed up all my thoughts pretty well. "Those bastards."  
  
Crumbling the piece of paper and throwing it away, I ran my right hand through my hair shakily.  
  
"This is like my worst nightmare come true. My first solo piece and they want to fuck it up." Grabbing my bag, I turned swiftly and ran up to my room. Throwing my bag against the wall, I sat on my bed. I was crying- sad. Just pissed off-sad. I needed something to hit, or kick, or, hell, just beat up.  
  
Looking at the clock, I sighed. I had plenty of time to kill, and no game (things to hunt) was in site. Laying back on my bed, I sighed, feeling very pathetic. Seeing my closet wide open, one of the darkest parts of my room, I walked slowly over to it and sat down, tucking my knees to my chin.  
  
A soft knock came upon my door.  
  
What if I didn't answer? What if whoever was on the other side of that door actually became worried and called for the police? And when the police arrived they would find me clutching my knees cradling a mirror, in which I looked at myself over and over again with a very pathetic face. What if one of the policemen thought I was cute and we ended up dating awhile. His name will probably be Ray, and he'll have dark hair and blue eyes. He'll probably get tired after a few months and we'll break up. Thinking that Ray was an asshole and how I didn't want to meet my future boyfriend, I crawled out of the closet and answered the door.  
  
The whole gang was standing outside of my door, in which I had to look up at them from my very pathetic spot on the floor.  
  
"Yes?" I managed. 


	4. Studio Three

Disclaimer: See previous ones.

Author's note: While I readily endorse in receiving reviews, I'd like to remind my future reviewers that I don't give a lick whether you enjoy my writing style or not. Because it is indeed my fanfic, I feel that I have the right to put any spin or style I will to it. I don't come into your fanfics and tell you to do something completely different from your writing style, so don't do it to me. To paraphrase a reviewer: it's just polite that way.

I'd also like to stress that I have studied the Romanticist period, art history, and well, European history from the 12th century through the 20th century in general. Romanticist writers still survive to day, so I'd like to remind my reviewers not to post false information, no matter how strong you get the urge to do so. I know very well what the period entailed, for indeed, two courses I took reviewed it.

I found no romance in the idea of using a character from the movie as the main character, so please don't plague me with utter nonsense regarding my choice of character. Yes, I'm quite certain it has no plot, and have been amused by the idea for several months now.

I'd also like to stress to my readers to disregard the suggestion that I spoke of psychological details in this story, as was wrongfully suggested. I merely stated that they existed in one of my other stories.

Five thirty eventually drew near, though it took its pleasurable time doing so. Standing silently in dimly lit studio three, I gazed blankly out among my companions gathered, most of whom had taken to sitting on the floor, gathered in clumps of three or four.

"Sit down, Veronica," Eva quietly said, eyeing me with those dark brown eyes.

Shaking my head, I declined. I never liked to sit. Especially not when something important was to commence. Coming up to my left side, Jodie pulled on a faded grey sweatshirt and eyed me with a gentle gaze.

"Calm down. I'm sure they won't cancel it...." But it seemed as if the more she spoke, the more she was trying to convince herself, and no longer me, that it was true. That they wouldn't cancel it.

Face carefully blank, I smiled slightly. "Of course, Jodie." Growing silent after that, I watched Charlie enter the room with Eric at his side, slowly making their way over to the rest of us. Draping an arm over Jodie's shoulders, he quietly began to speak. It seemed as if to all of us, but he only looked into Jodie's blue gaze.

"I heard Mr. Reeves earlier arguing on the phone with the foundation director. He wants that funding so bad that he can almost taste it."

Eva quietly cut in. "But why do they want cut the ballet? This ballet hasn't been done for a while; it'll draw crowds." Eric rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently, reassuringly.

"Because there's always the risk that it won't. The last time they did this piece it backfired slightly-" But at this point, Eva cut me off, her voice growing above the hush of the room.

"But that's because they put it together at the last moment." People slowly began to look over as her voice grew louder. "We're well prepared this time."

But, now Eric appeared to have been ready to speak. But he never had the chance. Just then, the doors swept open, and the light that flooded in from the hall, was blocked out as Mr. Reeves stepped into the room, and shut the double doors behind him.

Clasping his hands loosely behind his back, he slowly walked over to us, seeming to weigh his thoughts very carefully. Looking up finally at all of us, he sighed.

"As you all know," he began firmly, but with a hint of sad tension, "Funding for this piece is being cut. Our supporters feel that this ballet will not draw in enough crowds or incite enough attention. To be honest, and fair, it hasn't even received any recognition in the newspapers yet. While this is slightly unusually, I still feel that we can't pull out of this piece just yet. We've worked hard on this piece, and you are a wonderful cast, but I fear that our hope may be dwindling."

Pausing, he looked us over with that weighted gaze before continuing.

"Thus, I have proposed this. We will finish this piece over the next five days. And will do a performance of it for the foundation on Friday night. Should they find it fit, and worthy, they will reconsider their decision. But unfortunately, this means that we will have to do several more scenes than I anticipated."

At this point, murmurs began to break out. Frantic whispers about there being too little time; how they'd never make it; they weren't good enough.

I frowned slightly at their comments. Well, who gives a damn? We have to pull this off or die trying. A little extreme, I reasoned with myself, but if you want to get something done, you have to go to extremes.

Smiling bitterly almost, he eyed us once more before quietly heading to the door. "I shall see you bright and early tomorrow morning."

And with that, he opened the doors, left, and closed out the light, leaving us all very anxious.


End file.
